The Big Cat Nap Read online

  Slanting rays of late-afternoon sun kissed the fields as Harry walked through them.

  “Like butter.” She held her hand over her eyes as a shield. Today, even her summer straw cowboy hat didn’t do the trick.

  Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker listened as the human they loved most rambled on.

  Like most people, Harry happily babbled to her pets. She thought of them as pets. That wasn’t their attitude.

  Mrs. Murphy believed she had to think for both Harry and her husband. They were so slow.

  Pewter considered herself a small gray divinity. She felt no call to think for the humans.

  Tucker knew her job was to protect and defend, as well as to herd horses into or out of the barn. She used to herd humans, but their resistance to canine direction finally broke her of trying.

  “The hay looks good,” said Harry, “especially the alfalfa. I think I can cut it next week. That’s a happy thought. Do you all know I made twenty thousand dollars last year selling hay? Now, I know that’s a drop in the bucket compared to the big hay dealers, but really, really good for me.” She beamed as the slender green blades brushed against her thigh.

  “Smells good,” Mrs. Murphy noted.

  “Especially when it’s freshly cut.” Tucker lived by her nose.

  To a lesser extent, so did Pewter. She stopped as she picked up rabbit scent, a fragile aroma. In her booming meow, she called out, “Mother and baby bunnies passed through, um, maybe fifteen minutes ago.”

  “You just figure that out?” Tucker teased her.

  “I hate you, I really do.” The gray cat sped through the hay, blew past the dog and cat, and shot in front of Harry, slightly knocking her leg in the process.

  “Pewter.”

  “Faster than a speeding bullet,” Pewter chanted, having watched the Superman movies with Harry.

  “Fatter than a cannonball,” Tucker called out.

  That insult provoked the gray cat to stop abruptly, puff up like a broody hen with tail like a bottle brush, hop sideways, and hiss loudly. “Death to corgis.”

  Tucker, knowing Pewter’s temper, fell behind Mrs. Murphy.

  “Thanks,” the tiger cat drily said.

  “She’s not mad at you.” Tucker’s ear dropped in apology.

  “Pewter, move.” Harry reached the fearsome cat. “I don’t want to make more paths in the hay.”

  Pewter peered around Harry’s legs. “Coward.”

  “I am not a coward,” Tucker called back. “You’re in one of your moods.”

  “Pewter.” Harry looked down at the cat, still puffed up.

  “All right.” She smoothed her fur, then walked in front of Harry, her sashay more pronounced than usual.

  Under her breath, Tucker said to Mrs. Murphy, “She’s so conceited.”

  The sleek, beautiful tiger turned her head, swept her whiskers forward and back, then continued behind Harry, quite happy to walk in the clearing that the larger, two-legged animal made.

  Finally, on the other side of the hay, expanses of rolling pasture unfurled. To their left flowed the strong running creek, its deep banks dividing Harry’s farm from the old Jones place. Even though Cooper had been renting it, it would always be the old Jones place.

  About a half mile in front of Harry was the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and she had a nice stand of timber, which itself was wrapped by a huge stand—more than a thousand acres—owned by Susan Tucker. This had been inherited from Susan’s much-beloved uncle.

  Harry briskly trotted across the pasture to the edge of the forest. She managed her own stand and Susan’s, checking for signs of destructive bugs, curling leaves, or too many woodpecker holes—all signs of disease. The Tuckers were not really farmers or timber people. Ned, Susan’s husband, was serving his first term as a representative in the state senate. Anyway, Harry loved doing it. Never seemed like a chore.

  She sat down on a large fallen log, careful that no bees’ nests lurked inside or nasty red ants crawled about. Not seeing any mounds or activity on the hickory trunk, she sat down and told her friends all that she had seen that afternoon.

  “Awful,” Tucker sympathized.

  Harry dropped her hand on the dog’s broad, glossy skull. “I ask myself, why would someone—in broad daylight, mind you—brain someone? What if one of the fellows came back from lunch early? What if Kyle had wandered back into the garage?” She paused. “Actually, Kyle doesn’t seem like a young man motivated to do any more than necessary.” She thought, propping her chin in the palm of her hand. “The killer must have known that.”

  “Mom, how come you always wind up in these messes?” Tucker cast her soft brown eyes upward.

  “Bad timing. I mean, it’s not like she went looking for it, which we all know she can do and has.” Mrs. Murphy raised a silky eyebrow.

  “Car accident with Miranda, now this.” Pewter washed one paw.

  “It seems to me that the killer had a narrow window of opportunity, clearly knew that, and acted. It could be I’m missing something, but that’s what I deduce so far. Oh, and another thing: No one appeared too sorry over Walt’s demise. I mean, when something like this happens, you generally hear the workers or friends expressing pity, sorrow, how many children he left fatherless. Stuff like that. Well, walking through the waiting room I didn’t hear a peep or see one tear.” She lifted her head as a large bird flew over the treetops, letting out a raucous call. “My God, that’s a golden eagle. You hardly ever see them here.” Harry stood up to watch the huge bird continue on.

  “Better not come down here.” Pewter puffed out her chest.

  “Pewts, that bird could have any one of us for lunch,” Mrs. Murphy said, as she also watched the eagle fly away.

  The gray cat didn’t reply, instead focusing her attention on a little slithering lizard, which easily eluded the one exposed claw meant to impale it. Pewter retracted the claw, then returned to her toilet as though she hadn’t cared one iota about the lizard.

  Sitting back down, Harry said, “I’ll be glad when Fair gets home. He often has good ideas. I called him after I dropped off Herb and Susan. You know, he is just the sweetest man in the world. He said he’d take the day off, get another vet to cover his calls, and come home if I was shaken up. I’m not, really. I mean, it was gross. Gross. Bits of skull and brains and not lots of blood actually.” Looking intently at her three friends, she said, voice loud, “Do you know that brains are kind of blue?”

  “We know.” The three chimed in unison.

  “And another thing: Why a tire iron? Well, a gun would draw attention, but a knife would work. Then again, you have to get closer to stab someone. But Walt could have ducked. Maybe he did. Still, a tire iron. Must be a big hate.”

  “She’s off and running,” Tucker noted with resignation.

  “The killer had to be a man. First of all, it was so violent. You need a lot of power to bash in someone’s brains. But then, well, I could do it. BoomBoom’s strong enough to do it. Know what I mean? Anyway, this really troubles me.”

  “We know.” Again, the three chimed in unison.

  Harry tickled Mrs. Murphy’s ears as the cat sat next to her on the log. “I think I know people. Then I wonder.”

  “Start with yourself,” Pewter smarted off.

  Daylight savings time starts so early now.” Harry washed snap peas in the sink, tossing them in a pot when clean.

  “I like more light when I get off duty, but I don’t like getting up in the dark.” Cooper sliced little strips of bacon on the small butcher cutting board.

  Pewter leaned on Coop’s leg as the tall woman performed this task.

  “You’re not getting any,” Tucker predicted.

  “Yeah, you’re just saying that to make me let my guard down. If she drops any, you’ll scarf it up.”

  “You snooze, you lose.” Tucker blinked.

  Mrs. Murphy, on her side, tail slowly rising and falling, stayed out of it. Her two companions had been sniping at each other all day.
It wearied her.

  Harry opened the oven. “Ought to be ready when he gets home. Now that foaling season is over, we can once again have regular meals. Fair works so hard.”

  “Yes, he does.” Coop appreciated Fair’s many fine qualities, perhaps even more than Harry did, since she didn’t have to deal with any of the irritating ones.

  “You’re staying for dinner.” Harry raised one hand. “You’ve had a long day, you’re helping me with the snap peas, so just agree with me.”

  “I need to weed my garden.”

  “I’ll help you do that tomorrow. Unlike most people, I actually like weeding the garden.” Harry paused long enough to pour a little butter over the roasting chicken, then closed the oven door. “When’s Rick get back?”

  “He’ll be back at work tomorrow. I’ll be glad to see him. The crime-scene team, the photographer, they all did their usual professional job, but something about this murder doesn’t sit right. Usually, when you go to a crime scene, what happened is pretty obvious.”

  “That’s not how the TV shows present it,” Harry wryly noted.

  “Wouldn’t be any show if they did, now, would it?” Coop finished up with the bacon, scraping it into the pot with the snap peas. “What next?”

  “You can wash the lettuce. I’m making a simple salad. I’ve got to get my husband to eat more greens.”

  Pewter grimaced. “Rabbit food.”

  “Yeah, I need to do that, too,” Coop said.

  “So what’s different about this murder?”

  “Oh, like I said, if you’ve been in law enforcement for a while, most of the murders you see aren’t premeditated. Some are, but most of them are fights that escalate, maybe domestic violence that got out of hand or the wife finally decided to fight back. It’s cut-and-dried. I’ll tell you what bothers me a lot about this murder. All those guys at the garage drag race. Walt, on the other hand, restored old cars. Still, they seem to have all gotten along. Setting aside Kyle, the five mechanics working that day all gave exactly the same statement.”

  Harry turned to look at the younger deputy. “Which is?”

  Coop wiped her hands. “Hold on.”

  She ran out to her car, took out her reporter’s notebook.

  “Maybe she’ll take the grease from the chicken and pour it on our crunchies.” Pewter would have made a wonderful chef had she been human—a step down, in her mind.

  “Good idea.” Mrs. Murphy sat up.

  Coop returned to the kitchen, leaving the door open. A light breeze wafted through the screened-in porch off the kitchen; all the windows were open, too.

  “Okay. ‘We stayed late at lunch.’ ”She read from her notebook.

  “That’s it?”

  “Every single one of them said just that, followed by, ‘We figured we’d stay a half hour late and make up the time later that day.’ ”

  “Hmm.”

  “They also agreed that Walt left early for lunch and returned to ReNu earlier than the other workers.” She looked up from her reporter’s book.

  “Sounds rehearsed,” said Harry.

  “Well, it’s got me thinking. Usually in a situation like this, someone or another gets all shook up and rattles on. If there’s a group, they speak over one another, contradict one another. It can get emotional.”

  “Well, some did go outside and throw up when they saw the gore.”

  “Did you see them throw up?” Coop put the notebook on the table, grabbed the head of romaine lettuce, and began washing it.

  “Coop, I’m not going outside to watch people puke.”

  “I understand that, but I didn’t see any evidence of lunch.”

  Harry made a face. “You looked.” She stopped, hands idle for a moment. “I used to think I’d make a good detective. You’re proving me wrong.”

  “What you are is a nosy neighbor—a good neighbor, but a nosy one who stumbles on evidence.” Coop elbowed her lightly. “But you see things I don’t. I have to go by the book. You can rely on inspiration.”

  They both laughed at that.

  “Last thing our mother needs to hear,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Now she’ll really be nosy.”

  “Odd that humans use that particular word when they have such terrible senses of smell,” Tucker mused.

  “I gave a call to Susan and then Herb,” said Harry. “To check in. They’re okay.”

  “When I first came to the department, the reverend was driving a big Bronco. They’re so cool. The old Jeep Wagoneers are, too.”

  “Listen to you, and you’re not even a motorhead,” Harry teased her. “Speaking of motorheads, maybe you should go to the drag races. Just a thought.”

  Cooper smiled. “If I don’t, you will.”

  “Ah, come on, Coop. I love cars. Why shouldn’t I go?”

  “Why haven’t you gone before?” Cooper shrewdly asked.

  “I’m so busy with the farm. Get tired at night and the weekends. Fair’s home more now, but he’s not much for any kind of racing.”

  “Odd. You think he’d like horse racing.” Coop waited a moment. “When’s your next checkup?”

  “Next week.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Coop said encouragingly.

  “I think so, but it’s always in the back of my mind that the cancer may do a boomerang on me. Even when I pass the five-year mark, I expect I’ll still wonder. I know, I know, they say they got it all and nothing traveled.” She shrugged.

  “I’d feel the same way. On the other hand, I reckon a scare like that makes you appreciate life more. You don’t sweat the small stuff.”

  “That’s a fact, but, Coop, I’ve been looking out this kitchen window for forty years. Mom and Dad would hold me up or carry me out to the barn when I could hardly walk. For forty years I’ve looked at the Blue Ridge Mountains, heard the red-shouldered hawks, seen the raccoons, the deer, the fox, the bobcats, the dogwoods, redbuds, jack-in-the-pulpits, the wild roses. I’ve always appreciated life. The big difference is, now I know mine can end. Oh, we all know it.” She tapped her head. “But now I really know it.” She tapped her heart.

  “Karma.” Coop wrapped the lettuce in a dish towel.

  “What?”

  “To know that. And for all of us to be here together. I believe it’s karma.”

  “And what about what happened to Walt? Was that karma?” Harry wasn’t looking for an argument, just curious about Coop’s thoughts on the subject.

  “Yes. Had no friends. Family in Iowa. That’s all I’ve found out so far, but, yes, his death is karma.”

  A devilish gleam lit Mrs. Murphy’s gorgeous green eyes. “Hey, Pewts, that means the blue jay that keeps attacking you, it’s your karma.”

  Pewter’s eyes widened, her pupils filling out, her tail lifting slightly, her whiskers a little back. “Tapeworms are yours.”

  A mister on a timer released tiny droplets of cool water as Harry lingered over the various types of lettuce, some varieties named with imagination, like Tidewater Romaine and Low Country Early Lettuce. Taking a step back, Harry looked down at the produce section of Yancy Hampton’s grocery store. Harry marveled at the freshness of it all, beholding the bounty: shiny eggplants, deep oranges, tangerines, apples in every red and green imaginable. She also marveled that these sumptuous vegetables and fruits were truly organic.

  As a farmer, Harry knew how insects, blight, various fungi, too much rain or not enough, could affect a crop. Few organic goodies glowed as these beauties did. Any of them would have been at home in a still-life painting of superabundance.

  Then, too, how do you define organic? Fresh. Yancy stressed the point by naming his store “Fresh! Fresh! Fresh!” The market constantly advertised the purity of its goods.

  The store also heavily advertised that it bought from local farmers. Walking its aisles, Harry conceded that buying tomatoes might be easy after all. They were the number-four crop in the state. Tobacco was third, corn second, and soybeans first.

  While she’d never seen a tobacco le
af in any store, the varieties of corn and tomatoes were prominently displayed. Maybe they were trucked in.

  Virginia collected $1.8 million in wine liter tax revenue, and she could only imagine the monies that the big four brought to the state. Few people realized how crucial agricultural proceeds were to the economy of any state. They were all dazzled by green industry, high technology, electronics. At least Yancy was supporting Virginia farmers.

  Few people bought raw soybeans. They were hulled and roasted. Harry had no idea if Yancy’s soybeans came from Virginia or not.

  She didn’t know why she was suspicious, but she was.

  She crossed her arms over her bosom. The temperature under the morning sun had been seventy-two degrees F when she’d exited the station wagon. Just enough for the trickle of sweat to roll down her cleavage and under her breasts. A lady didn’t take a handkerchief and wipe down her glories any more than did a gentleman whose nether regions were prone to sweat. Harry couldn’t help but think that those very breasts, lovely as they were, might have killed her. She banished the thought, continuing to troll the fruits. The tangerines’ color was so deep, it just jumped out at her.

  The price, four dollars and ten cents for three, also jumped out at her.

  Reminding herself that she wasn’t here to buy citrus, Harry checked her watch: ten o’clock sharp. Time for her appointment with Yancy Hampton. Although Monday morning was not a time one usually associated with grocery shopping, the store was jammed with well-groomed women and the occasional man. Rolex watches captured the light; discreet good earrings or diamond studs created tiny rainbows. Perfectly pressed blouses and Bermuda shorts were worn with snappy espadrilles to complete the outfits. No one was fat.

  Yancy Hampton knew his market.

  Harry knocked on the natural-wood door; a thin voice called out, “Come in.”

  Yancy Hampton rose to greet her and shake her hand. He motioned for her to sit in an ergonomically perfect chair and then sat back down in his own version, designed to take pressure off the back.

  “Harry, last time I saw you was at the Cancer Ball.”

  “Thank you again for your support. We raised a lot of money from the five-K race, as you know, and then with the ball we raised a quarter of a million dollars. Of course, having the work of sports celebrities and media types sure helped.”